


The Scent of Burning Wood

by stellaseas



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Dating, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, F/M, Foreplay, Lust, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25989013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellaseas/pseuds/stellaseas
Summary: When a contract killer betrays the trust of Wilson Fisk, Wesley is dispatched to erase the problem. Never one to let loose ends lie undone, he pays a visit to the man's daughter to ensure she knew nothing of her father's work. Their meeting, though brief and seemingly inconsequential, lingers in Wesley's mind. He soon finds himself acting in favor of his desires rather than logic.
Relationships: James Wesley/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. And Today Was Her Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> I know this show is kind of on the back burners but this story is still spinning around in my head, my...answer to what I'd want 50 shades to actually be? I.e. not a total cringe-fest, but still I started it when I first watched the show and fell in...fatuation (?) with one James Wesley. Anyway, a story came out of it and here we are. I'm really proud of how this one got going and I hope I can finish it here...thanks for reading! Takes place during the events of season one of the series.

_**February 12th, 8:35 am** _

"Are you certain?"

Under the formidable shadow of the Manhattan Bridge sat a large car. Only here could it's hulking, sleek frame be well shielded from the prying eyes of any witless passersby. Behind it, the East River roared; its waters stirred by raging winds. Clouds peppered the sapphire skyline, keeping the sun partially hidden from view. They moved with surprising speed, pushed along by powerful winds high above. The last of the winter storms was finally winding down. The streets were awash with slush and sleet. It would still be weeks before warmth descended on the city streets. But the end of the chill was finally in sight. The masses had begun another morning commute into the heart of the city. The roads here, on a trivial block of city suburbia, were all silent.

Three individuals occupied the car. The first was a driver. He sat, hands firmly planted on the steering wheel, vigilantly waiting. As he listened to the hushed conversation taking place in the back seat, he trained his eyes on the street, watching for suspect pedestrians. On occasion his eyelids would droop shut and he would come close to drifting off. It had been a long night and he was desperate to get home and fall into bed.

"I'm afraid so." The second man said, adjusting the thinly framed glasses that rested on the bridge of his nose. He pulled a single photo from a slim, leather bound folder. "As you can see, the evidence is fairly damning."

The third man looked briefly at the image, and then turned away with a labored sigh. It was another set back. A small setback, but a setback none the less. First the man in the mask had appeared. Like a tick sucking at an open wound, the bastard was bleeding the Russians of their efficiency and worth with alarming ease.

And now this.

So far, the New Year had brought them nothing but trouble.

His eyes travelled to the window and he peered out the tinted glass. The clouds flew swiftly by, as if chased by a higher purpose.

"Such a disappointment." The third man said, finally. "He was a valuable asset."

"I agree," His second said, "He was discrete...practically invisible."

"What do you think we should do?" Wilson Fisk said, rubbing his eyes.

"Sir?" James Wesley questioned.

"I'm asking." Fisk said, his hands wringing into agitated fists.

Wesley regard his boss with a cautious eye. Morning had come quickly. The night had flown by; a whirlwind of neon lights and letdowns. They both needed sleep. But what sleep could come if the matter that now plagued them remained unsolved?

"I think there is only one viable option." He said, finally.

Fisk nodded. "It will be difficult to find a suitable replacement."

"Yes." Wesley agreed, reaching into his breast pocket. He pulled out a phone.

"It will have to be staged." Fisk said.

"Suicide?"

"No," Fisk said, bluntly. "This one, we leave with some dignity."

"Sir, he stole from you." Wesley responded, aghast. "Almost 100k. Shouldn't we-"

"I take no pleasure in this kind of work." Wilson said, halting Wesley's dissent. "He was a skilled contractor. Without his help we would not be as close as we are."

"...Understood." Wesley said, unable to argue.

"It will need to be handled right away." Fisk said. "This should be settled before word gets out."

"It can be done within the hour." Wesley assured.

"This is...a problematic time for us." Fisk warned.

"Of course," Wesley said gently. It was an obvious, but appreciated attempt to buoy the spirits of his superior. "I'll take Francis and Damon."

"And Beckett." Fisk added. "We can't afford another error."

Wesley nodded, his fingers racing across the screen of his phone.

"I'll inform you when the job is finished." He said. "You should go home. Rest."

He pocketed the phone and opened the passenger side door.

"Wesley," Fisk called, before the man had a chance to step out. "Thank you."

Wesley nodded as he exited the car, shutting the door behind him. Another car, an exact copy of the one he had just exited, pulled up next to him. The door was pushed opened from the inside. Wesley stepped in and before shutting the door and cast a knowing looking at the dark tinted window he had only just been sitting behind.

With a curt nod, he pulled the door shut.

"The Docks." He said.

"Yes, sir." Damon answered.

* * *

**_9:02 am. North Harbor. Lot 3._ **

"I'm afraid there's nothing to be done, Raymond."

Wesley stood, phone in hand, a look of annoyance etched on his stony face. It wasn't, however, his current task that caused him dismay. He was sifting through the data that Leland had send him. The Russians were behind again. Far behind. He was flanked by Damon and Francis. Several feet in front of him a man lay crumpled on the floor. His breath came in deep, battered shudders. Beckett, the largest and dimmest of the men at Wesley's disposal still had a fist tangled in the man's collar. The hulking guard shook his other hand, splatters of blood flew free and stained the floor.

"Look, it was a mistake." Raymond Hopper said, raising his head hesitantly. "I admit it, okay? If he would just reconsider-"

"Reconsider?" Wesley repeated scornfully. He slipped his phone back into his pocket, eyes finally shifting to the man before him. "What kind of man would my employer be...if he allowed the people who stole from him to go without reparations?"

"I can give it all back!" Bankhead sputtered manically. A thin stream of fresh blood slipped from the corner of his mouth. No doubt Beckett had liberated several of the man's yellowing teeth from his gums. "None of it's been spent. It's-"

"We are far past-" Wesley snapped.

"-No harm, no foul, no-"

"No harm?" Wesley repeated. He was no longer amused. He loathed being interrupted, especially by a man of such low standing. "You deceived him. Betrayed his trust. Sullied his reputation. Disrespected him. A man that took you in, gave you the tools to-"

"I'm good, dammit." Raymond yelped, trying to shake himself free of Beckett's grip. "He needs me-"

"I'm afraid not, Raymond." Wesley interjected. He looked over his shoulder and signaled to Francis. The dutiful guard approached while pulling his gun from his side holster.

"Please, please." The man howled. "You can't-"

Staring down the barrel of a gun, Raymond Hopper found his second wind. Beckett almost lost his grip and looked to Damon to help him hold them man. Damon obliged.

"I've got-" Hopper panted, his throat constricting. "A daughter. I've got a daughter! I'm all she has left, you can't take me away from her. You have to reconsider. I'll work for free. Just tell me who you need taken care of. I'll do it!"

Francis looked to Wesley; his face as always, was nothing more than a muted question.

Wesley simply nodded. "The left shoulder, I think."

"What?" Bankhead choked.

He understood far too late. Without a moment's hesitation, Francis approached the marked man and took aim. The shot rang around the abandoned floor, loud in its finality.

"Shit!" Hopper yelped as he was wrestled to the ground. The bullet had hit it's target. The caliber was enough to send it careening through flesh, scrape bone and plunge through to more vital organs. Beckett and Damon held steady, letting the blood seep from the wound and spill over Hopper's chest in a small flood.

Wesley returned his attention to his phone.

"Is it done?" Wesley asked, his eyes trained on the screen.

"Yeah." Francis said, eyeing the body. Raymond Hopper had passed on.

"Put him in his truck then." Wesley said, "It won't take long for him to be found."

Francis pocketed his gun and motioned to the other two men. "Yes, sir."

"I'll be in the car." Wesley said. He left them to deal with the messy clean up and set the stage for the few honest policemen that would be made to find him.

* * *

Wesley was relieved to be back in the car. The stench of rotting blood was not something he enjoyed. It had been a messy killing, but messy would work in their favor. He preferred easier kills. Clean kills. Simple kills. He flipped through his messages, waiting none too patiently for Francis to return.

Finally, he did.

"Did you find the money?" Wesley asked, when the side door was opened.

"Most of it." Francis said. He handed Wesley a large black bag.

"Good," Wesley took the bag.

"Anything else, sir?" Francis asked, dutifully.

"Just make sure they get the job done right. We can't leave any trace behind."

"Yes, sir." Francis obliged. He shut the door behind him and returned to the scene.

Wesley shifted his attention to the bag. It smelled strongly of loud, cheap deodorant. It looked to be a gym bag. Under no circumstances did Wesley believe the portly Raymond Hopper used it for its manufactured purpose.

With a ginger hand, he pulled at the zipper and began to funnel through the contents. An empty wallet, a forged passport, a change of clothes, two packs of cigarettes, a phone charger, swiss army knife, a hammer for some ungodly reason and-

_There._

Wrapped tightly in tissue and twine was a large roll of bills. Wesley removed his find and placed it in a small leather messenger bag. He was relieved to have found the money so easily. Exhausted as he was, Wesley had no desire to comb the city for stolen bills. 

He paused. Tied to the back of the roll was a small red envelope.

He turned it over and read the scrawled cursive: _Birdy._

Francis returned. "It's done sir. Damon is notifying Unit 38."

He regarded his boss with worry. It seemed his words had gone unheard.

"Sir?" Francis called. "Is something wrong?"

Wesley looked up at him. Francis was a quiet, oftentimes naive man, but he was perceptive in ways the other men weren't.

"Did you know he had a daughter?" Wesley asked, returning his attention to the envelope.

"I didn't." Francis answered.

"Hm," Wesley said, chewing on the thought. "It's a shame to lose a contract killer like Hopper. For years, he was able to successfully hide information of such...value. Even from us."

"Yes, sir." Francis agreed, though he wasn't sure he understood. "Do you suspect she has the rest of the money?"

"It's possible" Wesley said.

Wesley slipped the envelope into his breast pocket and pushed the bag to the floor of the car.

"Let's go." He ordered. 

As Francis directed the car away from the curb, Wesley's phone lit up. He answered it immediately.

"Sir?" Wesley answered.

"Is it done?" Fisk asked.

"Yes." Wesley said. "Although, there are a few...loose ends I would like to attend to."

"Very well."

With a click, the call ended as abruptly as it had come.

* * *

It did not take long to track down the dead man's daughter. Although Raymond Hopper had kept his personal life well hidden from his professional channels, he had kept a rather detailed agenda. Francis had found it. It was a small, thrashed notebook. Inside, the once-reliable fixer had kept a careful account of both the worlds he had occupied.

Under the day's date, he had scrawled: _Birdy's Birthday. 1:30 Lunch. Studio 27._

Within a few clicks of research, Wesley had found all the information he needed.

Studio 27 was the moniker of a local woodworks shop. While most of their business was run through several online outlets, the studio had a small storefront on 53rd. The owner kept a blog open with various updates on sales and custom jobs. After instructing Francis to circle the block, Wesley stepped inside.The shop was small but fairly sleek. The floor of the entrance was covered in small octangular tiles. A smattering of black tiles spelled out: No. 27. The walls were painted a deep flint gray. To the left, a register sat on a white stone countertop. Behind it, sat a tall, broad shouldered boy, flipping through the sports section of the daily newspaper.

His presence having gone unnoticed, Wesley cleared his throat loudly.

The boy started. "Oh, hey man. Can I help you?"

"Yes," Wesley said, flashing a lopsided grin. "I'm looking for a Ms. Hopper? I believe she works-"

The brute of a boy nodded before he could finish and bellowed, "Birdy! Someone's here to see you."

Wesley cringed at such an unnecessary ruckus, but managed to keep his expression pleasantly placid.

After a few seconds of silence, the boy rolled his eyes. "I'll get her."

Wesley watched him go. Left alone in the small store space, he stepped up to the counter. Next to the register, two small cherry wood blocks held a collection of business cards. The cards were minimalist in style. Each was printed on thick, ragged paper. A small typeface conveyed the name of the company (Studio 27), it's purpose (Woodwork - Custom Designs) and the name, position and phone number of the card's representative.

The first belonged to a John Graham. Owner.

The second, to his target. Not Birdy, but Hannah.

Hannah Hopper. Lead Designer.

As the sound of heavy footsteps grew closer, Wesley swiftly slipped one of the cards from it's holder and pocketed it. 

The boy returned. "She's on her way."

"Great." Wesley said, flashing a smile.

The boy didn't react, simply turned back to his reading.

"Hurry up, Birdy!" He shouted after only four seconds had passed.

"I'm coming!" A new voice snapped. It rang clear like a bell, dripping with annoyance.

As she turned the corner, she ran a hand through her hair. Then, she lifted her hand to her lower lip, swiping at the burgundy lipstick she must have only just refreshed. She looked almost nothing like her father. She was taller than he had been with a fairly athletic figure. Her face was a mixture of a sharp angled chin and more rounded cheeks. Half of her bronzed brown hair had been piled into a loose bun at the back of her head. It was only in her eyes that traces of her father's heritage could be found. They were sharp and slightly slanted; framed by thick but well groomed brows. It was in those eyes that signs of a keen intelligence could be seen; a glaring contrast to her obviously work-a-day existence. The same trait could be- or rather _had been_ apparent in her father.

She wore a thin, slightly wrinkled, white button up shirt. The collar had been upturned to accommodate the straps of her sage green apron and the sleeves had been rolled up past her elbows.

"Ah," He said, with a cordial smile. "You must be...Birdy-"

"Hannah" She interjected.

"Sorry?"

"My name is Hannah." She said, placing both of her hands on the counter. "Birdy is just a...silly nickname."

She cast a wry grin at the boy who had called to her. He sniggered.

A shrill ringing came from the back room. Hannah looked to the boy expectantly and he exited with a nod. "I'll get it."

"Ms. Hopper, then." Wesley said.

"Yes. How can help you, Mr…"

"Wesley." He said, with an easy eloquence. "James Wesley."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Wesley." She said. Her voice too was reminiscent of her father's. It had a rich, throaty quality to it.

She smiled politely, but it was small and impatient. Clearly he had interrupted her work.

Wesley began, "I'm afraid I don't quite know how to begin."

With a practiced sigh, he stopped and reached into his pocket.

"Why don't I just…" He trailed off, placing the envelope on the smooth quartz countertop.

The girl looked at it, brow furrowed. After a moment, she picked it up with the same air of caution one would give if presented with a live snake.

She turned it over. Her eyes darted quickly across the envelope. The frown she wore deepened.

Unceremoniously, she tucked her index finger under the crease and tore the envelope open. She pulled from it a crumpled piece of paper. She read it quickly.

"This is from my father." She said. It wasn't a question.

"Ah, yes I believe it is."

"And you had it…" She said. She directed a calculating glance in his direction before returning her attention to the letter. "Why?"

"Well...That is, I'm afraid, difficult to say." Wesley said. He crossed his arms over his chest and feigned a look of grave concern.

"Do you know my father?" She asked. "I've never seen you before. He's never mentioned you."

"Ms. Hopper," He said, after a moment of thought. "Have the police been to see you today?"

"The police?" She repeated, not understanding.

With a natural flare that would leave actors on broadway envious, Wesley began to spin the tale he had concocted in the short ride to the studio.

"My employer owns several of the buildings in this area and-"

He paused, lifting his hand as though he would need to defend himself. "Let me go back...we were quite fond of your father's work-"

"You mean his moving business." She interjected again.

Wesley sniffed, peeved at the interruption. Clearly, this was another paternal inheritance she had been cursed with.

"Yes, he was a reliable man. We recommended his services to many of our tenants…"

Wesley trailed off again. It seemed she had truly heard him this time. Her almond eyes went wide. Wesley could see the cogs in her mind pick up speed. She was beginning to understand. His subtle hints at her father current state, or in this case, lack of state. _Was._ **Were.**

He started again. "He was actually expected to make a delivery this morning, one of our tenants found him-"

"Wait, wait." She stopped again, raising her hand. She cast an accusatory glance in his direction. "What exactly are you saying?"

"I was onsite for an inspection, the police said that it looked as though he had been robbed."

She cast another glance at the envelope in her head. As realization careened into her, she dropped it as though it had burst into flames.

"Oh god." She said. "Is he...is he dead?!"

Wesley said nothing.

"He's dead. " She repeated.

"Dead?" The boy had returned from the back room. "Who's dead?"

"Ray." She said, near breathless.

"What?! Ray's dead?" The boy yelped. "What are you talking about?"

As if on cue, a streak of red and blue light shone through the glass windows at the front and reflected dimly on the polished countertop. The police had finally arrived.

An officer, one Wesley recognized but did not know by name, entered. He removed his cap and approached the desk.

Wesley stepped back, cursing their untimely arrival. He had yet to procure the information he needed.

"Ms. Hopper?" The officer asked, eyes downcast.

"I-uh, yes?" The girl said, clutching her head with one hand.

"My name is Officer Mackey. I'm afraid I have some bad news."

"Oh my god." She said, nearly dropping to the floor.

Wesley shook his head. There was no use in him trying now. He bowed his head and turned to leave.

He could see Francis parked across the street.

With one look back he eyed the young woman. Though her face was a picture of shock, he could not see a single tear dotting her dark eyes.

He sighed, thoroughly annoyed.

After all, the job wouldn't be done until the girl had been properly dealt with.

He would have to return another day soon.


	2. Before The Grave

**_Two weeks later._ **

_Everyone's looking at me._

Hannah shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She wore simple, sheath dress in black. Her coat, an oversized graphite gray number hung from her shoulders. She had pulled back her hair into a demure braid. Slivers of her shorter layers had pulled free and fell around her face.

Today was her father's funeral.

She had hoped it wouldn't come to this. First there had been a full service. An open casket. And now she and her guests had made the trek out to the cemetery for the burial. If she had had her way, her father would be in an urn...somewhere.

 _God knows where._ She thought, picking anxiously at her thumbnail as she surveyed the small crowd.

Unbeknownst to her, her father had penned a will. In it, he had demanded a casket, a church service and a proper burial. It was yet another thing she didn't know about her father. Another thing she would never have expected of him. She took her seat at the front of small collection of chairs. Though most of the mourners sat behind her, she could feel their stares just as she would feel a cold wind biting at the back of her neck. They were mostly made up of her father's friends, drinking buddies she hardly knew. Thank goodness, the Graham's were there as well. 

She wouldn't have been able to plan such a formal affair without the help of the Graham's.

The Graham Family had been good to Hannah. She was only five years old when her mother had passed. After the funeral, her father had moved them from their small town Montana life to Manhattan. Even though he had no prospects and knew no one, he had thought the city would be able to offer them a new life. A different life. He had used the money his wife had left them to rent a small apartment near the center of Hell's Kitchen. The Grahams lived across the hall. They were a boisterous, tight knit clan of five.

John Graham, the friendly yet firm patriarch, formed a fast bond with Ray Hopper. They had both grown up in the Chicago area and were ardent White Sox fans. He was a carpenter and a teacher. He was known around the neighborhood as an upstanding, modest man. Tall, but somewhat stout in his old age, his visage was true to his Scottish roots. He had a mop of graying red hair and when we was off the clock, boisterous. He never missed a family dinner or event. To John, family was the most important aspect of life. 

His wife Bonnie, was a piano teacher and dedicated mother to her three sons. She was a short, round woman with a beautiful head of auburn hair (a vibrant color she had passed on to her boys). She had always yearned for a daughter and she welcomed Hannah into their home with joy and warmth.

At 28, Hannah was just a year older than the youngest Graham, Nathan. The middle brother, Luke, was 29. And Liam, the eldest, was 34. Over the years, she had spent so much time with them she considered them brothers.

Whenever her father was working late, Hannah would stay with the Grahams. And even after Hannah grew old enough to take care of herself, she made frequent trips across the hall to visit with them. Bonnie had taught her to read music and play the piano. Luke and Nate tried to teach her lacrosse. But it was John's work that really fascinated Hannah.

As the years went by, he trained her and often boasted over her burgeoning skills in woodwork. _She's got more talent than all my sons combined._ He would say with a laugh. _Who would've thought!?_

When Hannah turned nineteen, she enrolled in a local college to help bolster her business acumen. She opened an online store when she was 24 years old. After procuring a small cliental along with some fortuitous local press she decided to open a store front. John, impressed with her work, had offered to partner with her. 

So while her relationship with her father had only grown more distant over time, her connection to the Graham's had strengthened. They had tempered her loneliness, encouraged her passions, and made her feel as though she were wanted, needed and loved. Hannah was grateful for all the Grahams had done for her. Especially now.

Now that she had lost the last surviving member of her family.

Her breath caught in her throat as the nasty thought swirled in her mind.

Her father was dead. Since the news had broke almost two weeks prior, the realization kept creeping up on her. Sleep was hard to come by. Food just confounded her. Throughout the day she endured bouts of sudden numbness. She recognized this as trauma, but she couldn't think of a thing to do about it. She couldn't even bring herself to cry.

 _I'm too old to be an orphan._ She thought. _But that's what I am. No mother, no father...no aunts, uncles, grandparents. No one._

She turned her attention back to the service. The pastor was close to ending his speech, which meant she would have to stand a talk next. She swallowed, only to find her throat was painfully dry.

She toyed with the handkerchief Bonnie had given her that morning. She ran the fabric through her fingers, wanting nothing more than to tear it to ribbons.

 _What do I say?_ She thought, her mind a complete blank. _I should've written something down. Idiot._

The crowd that had gathered was small. She was flanked by John and Bonnie. The two younger Graham boys sat in the first row as well. Her roommates, Carly and Alexis, had come. Her father's business partner, Greg Dixon. A handful of his drinking buddies. The nurses that had tried to revive him. His landlord.

Hannah shifted her attention to the skyline. The view from her seat could have been breathtaking if not for the grim circumstances. The cemetery sat on a bantam hilltop, offering a rare panoramic view of the city. It was a gray day. The morning air was cool and dry. The smell of salt and soot floated over on crisp winds. A thick, smooth sheet of clouds covered all. The vibrant color of the manicured green grass was a stark contrast to the dull, dirty tones of the city in the daylight. Without the neon lights that peppered the landscape at night, Manhattan looked more like a corpse, stale and devoid of color and life.

"...And now we will hear from Raymond's daughter, Hannah."

She winced at the sound of her name. Hiding her grimace as grief, she clutched the handkerchief and stood up. She removed her coat, letting it fall on to her seat. A chill raced up her spine, but she ignored it.

Her heart was pounding as she approached the podium. The pastor took her hand gently, patting it before moving to take his own seat.

Hannah swallowed. She had no idea what to day. Still, she opened her mouth and prayed that something passable would fly out.

"To lose...a person, a family member so suddenly…" She started. "It, uh, there are no words-"

Dozens of eyes were trained on her. Waiting for something she was sure she couldn't give. She looked beyond the crowd, mumbling on.

"Ray- my father was a hard working man..."

Her eyes caught sight of an elder tree far down the hill. Standing under its shadows, was a man. Hannah realized he was watching the service.

"...He was-uh." She stuttered, derailed by the figure in the shadows. "He was my father. And I-I'll miss him everyday. Excuse me."

She lifted her hand to her eyes, pretending to dab at tears.

She backed away from the podium and hastily returned to her seat.

Thankfully, John rose from his seat and began his own address.

Hannah lowered herself into her seat; her entire body numb to everything but her pounding heartbeat. Bonnie reached over and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Hannah leaned closer to her, letting the older woman rub her back. She bowed her head and prayed for it all to be over.

* * *

Eventually, her prayers were answered. After John had spoken, the Pastor had returned for some final words. The coffin was lowered down and the service came to an end.

"Sweetie." Bonnie said. "Are you ready to go? The reception will be starting soon."

 _The reception._ Hannah thought, woefully. _How could I forget?_

No wonder the crowd had left in a rush. There was food, and likely booze, waiting for them at a second location. Maybe that's why some of them had come in the first place. The somber affair was far from over. At least during the service, she could avoid talking with the other mourners. Now, she would have no choice. Most likely she would be cornered by the others, regaled with old stories, and pressed with more pitying stares.

She felt the muscles in her throat clench. The thought was enough to suffocate her.

"You go on," Hannah said with a heavy sigh. "I just...want to be alone- with him, for a moment."

"Are you sure, hon?" Bonnie, glancing back at her husband. "Do you want one of us to stay with you?"

"No," Hannah said, hopefully not too quickly. Any delay in time would be welcome. Even if it was only a measly half hour. "I'll be okay, thank you Bonnie."

Hannah cast a beseeching look at John Graham. He nodded.

John reached out for his wife's hand. "Come on, Bonnie. She'll be fine."

"Alright," Bonnie said. "You call if you want a ride, okay?"

She reached out and hugged Hannah.

"Thanks." Hannah mumbled into the woman's shoulder.

Hannah slipped her arms into her coat as she watched them scale down the hill. She turned and cast her eyes down on the gravestone.

_Raymond Hopper. Forever At Peace. 1962 - 2015._

She stared at the chunk of stone, entirely unsure what to make of it. None of this seemed real. She had seen her father so little in the past five years. Going months without a word or note or call felt normal.

_To think he's really gone now. That I'll never hear his voice or see him again._

She wondered when it would truly hit her. That he was gone and she was alone.

 _Forever alone,_ She thought.

A wind picked up, knocking her hair about. With a frustrated sigh, Hannah reached up and pulled at the tie that kept her hair braided together. She tugged it loose and let her hair fall around her face. Crumpled strands hit her cheeks, but she could hardly feel them.

It was then that she could feel a presence behind her. Someone was approaching.

She turned, a new gust of wind blowing her hair back completely.

 _The man in the shadows._ She thought.

She recognized him, but she couldn't pinpoint where from. He was clothed in a sharp navy suit. A matching tie, with crossed icy blue stripes adorned his crisp white shirt underneath. He was tall. Towering actually. From her position on the hill, their eyes fell on the same level.

"Hello." She said, trying to hide her surprise.

He nodded to hear, bowing his head. "Ms. Hopper."

"I know you." She said, suddenly realizing where from. It was his clear, cutting voice that had jogged her memory.

"You...you came to the shop the day that…" Her words faded away.

"Yes," He said. "I read about the service in the paper. I felt...compelled to come by."

"But not join in?' Hannah asked.

"I admit, I felt out of place." He conceded.

"Ah" Hannah said. "Makes sense."

Silence ruminated between them. The bay winds picked up. Hannah stuffed her hands into the pocket of her coat. She suddenly felt very cold.

"I'm sorry," She said, "I'm not remembering your name."

The corners of Wesley's mouth jerked upwards. Though he dressed with notably impeccable style and could command the attention of a room, he was often considered forgettable. A bland, assuming face in a crowd of people with more to offer. To others, this might result in constant frustration. In Wesley's line of work, however, this was an unprecedented advantage. He could operate the business of his boss in broad daylight as easily as he did under the cover of night. To him, anonymity was crucial.

"Wesley." He said.

"Yes," she said, relieved to see he wasn't miffed. "James, right?"

"Right."

"Well, thank you for coming." Hannah said, lamely.

"Forgive me, I-" He said, adjusting his glasses. "...can't help but feel almost responsible for what happened. Perhaps if we had scheduled a later delivery-"

"Please," Hannah said, trying to ease his concern. "You were doing your job. You couldn't have known…"

His spirit bolstered by her quick dismissal, Wesley stepped close to her. His height now very apparent. Hannah had to raise her head to keep eye contact. At 5'9" it was a sensation she came across rarely.

"It was...nice of you to do that." Hannah said, stumbling over her words.

Was it nice? No, that wasn't the right word. Was there even a right word for such a topic?

"...To come, to bring the gift." She finished. She hoped she didn't sound as awkward as she felt.

"It was the least I could do." He said, his words injected with condolences.

Hannah huffed. She could do with the hugs and the tears, but the pity did not sit well with her. She had had enough of that as a child.

She bit down on her bottom lip, hoping she could hide her disdain.

 _He's just being nice._ She thought.

"Forgive me for saying, Ms. Hopper." Wesley said, "You look like you haven't slept."

"I haven't." Hannah said, willing to brush off negative comment for a change in subject.

"Would you care for a coffee?" He asked.

At first, Hannah was taken aback. He was a stranger after all, but the prospect of ditching the reception was too tempting for her to turn down.

"I would like that." Hannah said, relief flowing through her like adrenaline. "Very much."

* * *

_What am I doing?_

Far too late, it occurred to Hannah that agreeing to coffee with a complete stranger may have been foolish.

 _Nothing I can do about it now._ She thought.

She sat in the backseat of a glistening four door SUV. Wesley was seated next to her.

As the car slogged through mid morning traffic, she glanced at him. He seemed perfectly at ease, one leg crossed over the other. His hands were folded over his lap. He stared keenly out the front window.

 _Who is this guy?_ Hannah thought. _The sharp tailored suit. The attentive driver. The luxury car..._

She considered his name, but it wasn't familiar to her. Then again, she never paid too much attention to local news. Unless it involved men in flying suits or aliens unleashed from another dimension.

After a short drive they had reached his desired location. The driver exited first and opened the side door. Wesley stepped out and Hannah followed.

He held the door open for her.

The cafe was narrow and crowded with people. Hannah realized that she hadn't seen the name, having been too distracted by Welsey's quiet chivalry. It had been designed to mimic the coffee houses of Paris. The floors were covered in old, possibly original, black and white tiles. The walls were painted in cool blue-gray tones. The furniture was crafted of dark cherry wood, a welcome contrast.

The smell of freshly ground beans was almost enough to pull her from her distracted malaise.

"What will you have?" A server asked from behind the counter.

"A latte please. Nonfat." She said.

The server looked to Wesley next.

"The same." He said, reaching into his pocket.

He glanced down at her with a polite smile. "Allow me…"

 _He wants to pay..._ She realized.

"Oh, no I couldn't ask-"

"I insist." He said. He said it with a grin, but Hannah felt there would be no arguing with him. He seemed to be a man who got exactly what he wanted, when he wanted.

He placed a matte black card on the counter and slid it over to the server.

"Thanks," She said.

"A table just opened in the front." The server said with a toothy smile. She handed the card back to Wesley.

"Shall we?" Wesley said.

"Yeah," Hannah said, unable to shake away the feeling that she was off balance.

They took their seat at a small round table. After removing her coat, Hannah placed it on the back of the chair and lowered herself into the seat.

Seconds later a waiter appeared with two steaming mugs. Hannah smiled up and him and whispered a quick thank you.

Wesley regarded her with a careful gaze. It was an easy smile. Too easy. Not the sort you would expect from a woman in mourning. Perhaps he had no reason to worry after all.

"Thank you for this." Hannah said, her eyes trained on the table.

"I hope I wasn't too forward in asking." He responded, easing back into his chair. He crossed one leg over the other, leaving his own drink untouched.

"No, it's just-" She said, shaking her head. "To be honest, I should be at the reception right now."

Wesley feigned a look of concern, even though he already knew there was to be a reception after the service. "I'm sorry. Should I-"

"No! No." She said, interjecting again. "I would rather be anywhere else in world. I'm sure they're all get buzzed and...telling stories about what a great man Raymond was."

It wasn't the first time she had referred to her father by his given name. Wesley had thought the first time had been for the sake of her colleague. That theory was now dashed. It suggested a desire to distance herself from the man that was her father. His concern over the unfortunate situation was growing smaller by the minute. Hopefully, he would have all he needed by the time the hour was up.

"Were you close with him?" Wesley asked. It was a gentle probe, one he hoped would give him all the assurance needed.

"Who?" The girl asked, distracted.

"Your father." He clarified.

"Oh," She flushed, embarrassed. "Obviously."

She lifted her mug and took a sip. A delay tactic.

After a moment, she simply shrugged. "No."

Wesley lifted his own cup to his lips, covering the smirk that he could not hold back. Finally he had caught break.

"Is it obvious?" She asked, running her thumb over the edge of her mug.

Wesley shook his head.

"It's not that I don't care for him. I do. Of course, I do." She explained. "But, in the past six months I must've seen him...twice? Spoke with him on the phone a couple times. Merry Christmas, Happy Father's Day...those calls you make because you feel obligated."

She lifted the cup to her lips and this time took a long, lingering sip.

"God, I must sound awful." She said, returning the cup to its saucer. "He's dead. He's gone. And I'm talking about him like he was an old acquaintance. My own father."

"It's understandable." Wesley said.

"Is it?" Hannah asked, concerned. "Do you talk to your parents?"

"Not often, no," He answered. The truth was he hadn't seen or spoken to his family in over a decade. "They live out of state."

"You never go to see them?" Hannah asked.

"No. I am...what you would call a black sheep." He said. "It's better this way."

"I know what you mean." Hannah said, with a small smile. She lifted the mug again, but didn't drink. Instead, she just held it in her hands, enjoying the warmth of it pressed against her palms.

"Not that I was a black sheep." She corrected. "I don't think that's possible if there's only two of you."

"You don't have a-"

"Mother?" Hannah finished. "No, she died a long time ago. I hardly remember her."

"It must be hard," Wesley said, trying to lure the girl into a further state of openness. "To lose the last of your family."

"That's what everyone says." Hannah answered, a glint of irritation in her eye. "But, the truth is...we rarely saw or spoke to one another. We had no interests in common. Our lives were practically separate, I guess. He was always working…"

There it was. The opportunity he had been waiting for. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. He would have to careful. Broach the subject directly while obscuring any hidden motive.

"Did he discuss his work?" Wesley asked.

"Sometimes," Hannah answered, unfazed by the question. "He always said that his work was just a stepping stone to something more worthwhile. He told me to be patient. That one day all his dirty work would pay off and we would have a better future."

Wesley's eyes narrowed.

"I never understood that." Hannah continued. "Why he called it "dirty" work. I mean, it's a moving company. It's not a glamorous gig but...it's not like he was shoveling trash off the sidewalks."

"Perhaps he was ashamed." Wesley ventured. He watched her carefully, looking for any signs of a deeper truth. One she wouldn't be obliged to share openly.

"Perhaps." Hannah agreed. She took another sip of her drink. When she pulled the cup back a small dot of foam was visible at the right corner of her mouth.

Inexplicably, Wesley was overcome with a sudden desire to reach across the table and wipe it away. He shifted in his seat, confused by the unsolicited notion.

Hannah wiped it away herself, the same way she had wiped at her lipstick upon their first meeting. Her thumb slashed across her lower lip with the same precise motion. It reminded him of a sword slicing at flesh.

"He never could focus on the present." She continued, unaware of any shift in mood. "He was always going on about the future. How much better his life would be. Didn't really work out that way though…"

She sighed heavily. Wesley could see her shoulders shuddering.

Just then, his phone buzzed to life.

"Excuse me," He said, with an apologetic nod.

Hannah watched as he lifted the phone to his ear. He was a peculiar man. She had never met someone so well put together. She sensed that perhaps he was holding back. Reigning in his eloquence to make her feel more comfortable.

 _Though why he would feel the need to do that..._ She thought.

"Sir?"

Hannah watched him as he listened intently. His posture had changed so quickly. It must have been an important call. One he wasn't expecting.

"Yes. Of course." He said, his voice heavy with something Hannah couldn't readily identify. "I will take care of it."

He pulled the phone back and slipped into his jacket once more.

"I am sorry," He said, though she wasn't convinced he was. "I must go."

"That's okay." Hannah said. She placed her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her hands. She wondered what time it was. How much time had this little excursion managed to kill?

He stood, taking a moment to clasp his blazer. "I am sorry for your loss, Ms. Hopper."

Hannah had heard those words so many times, yet she still had not concocted an acceptable answer. She nodded.

He stopped just before passing her, though at first he wasn't sure why.

He had all the information he needed. He could now report back to Fisk, convinced that the Raymond Hopper incident had been handled appropriately.

And yet there was something unfinished here. Something that required his attention.

Something...unrelated to his professional obligations.

He turned to face her once more.

She was watching him closely. "Yes?"

"I would like to see you again." He said frankly. "Under less...tragic circumstances."

Hannah straightened in her seat.

"You would?" She said, taken aback. _Is he...asking me out?_

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. He held it low so that she could see what it said.

 _My card._ Hannah realized, recognizing the typeface and her maker's mark.

"Is the number listed here personal?" Wesley asked.

"I-yes, it is." Hannah stuttered, still trying to catch up.

"May I call you sometime?" Wesley asked, as though he were conducting the terms of a business agreement.

Hannah managed a curt nod. "I would like that."

 _I would!?_ She thought, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

"Alright then," He said.

Hannah half expected him to reach out and shake her hand.

"Goodbye, Ms. Hopper." He said.

Hannah turned in her chair, watching him go.

He stepped through the door and into the waiting car without a look back.

"Good...bye." She said aloud, still unsure of what had just transpired.


	3. I've Got To See You Again

Chapter 3

I've Got to See You Again

This was **not** control.

Wesley thought back and considered the turn the night had taken. He loathed these moments. When things didn't go the way they were supposed to. Times like this were rare. Or at least they had been. Before the man and the mask.

They had known the Russians would be volatile. Not too long ago the gamble seemed worth the risk. But after Anatoly's ludicrous display in the restaurant (and his resulting...decapitation), Wesley had to admit that the risk did not pay off as it should have.

He caught his reflection in the mirror of his bathroom.

_Hmph. What a shame._

The pristine collar of his shirt was spattered with blood. The blood of a dead man.

 _A fool._ He thought with a sniff of disdain.

It had been a long night. No doubt the stain had already set in.

 _What a mess_. He thought, ripping his tie loose in one smooth action. At least something had been spared. It wasn't that he was averse to violence. He understood, perhaps better than most, that such tactics were merely a means to an end. Oftentimes, as necessary as they were untidy.

Wesley didn't like to admit it, but the masked man had more than made his mark. He had pulled back the curtain and revealed that pieces of the machine were faulty. Liabilities were piling up. Mistakes had been made. Some of them far too public. Everything was beginning to unravel at a speed that was more than troubling.

He removed his glasses, placing them carefully on the black quartz countertop. His vision wasn't terrible, he could still the spatter of blood marring what would have otherwise been an impeccable reflection; but why settle for anything less than perfect? Especially when it came to something as important as sight. A heavy sigh escaped him as he undid the button as his collar and worked his way down. He could feel the pads of his fingers brush against his chest, still icy cold from the winter night air. 

He needed...release. He needed a distraction.

Wesley caught his own gaze in the mirror.

He needed control.

And so, roused by the nasty turn of the night's events, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The blood stain on his shirt forgotten. 

* * *

From very far away, Hannah could hear someone calling her name. It was soft and blurry, like smoke. Her brow furrowed. She didn't want to be called. She wanted to sleep more. She wanted to sink into her sheets and hibernate for the remainder of the winter.

But the voice persisted and with every call grew louder.

She rolled over, suppressing a groan. She opened her eyes, wincing at the sudden flood of warm light.

"Hey there," It was her roommate Carly, peering in from her doorway. Her golden hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun. She was wearing her favorite NYU sweatshirt and black leggings. Her reading glasses were perched on top of her head and she held an overstuffed fashion magazine in her hand.

Hannah rose up quickly. Too quickly. Her head spun and a sharp pain sparked across her temples. She groaned, lifted a hand to her head and tried to knead the pain away.

"Sorry." Carly whispered. "Just thought you should get up."

Hannah moved her hand to block her gaze and rolled her eyes.

Carly was, for the most part, a good roommate. She was reliable and always paid the rent on time. She was an avid baker and always shared the spoils of her many pinterest based experimentations. But she was also a pediatric nurse and took it upon herself to care for anyone that came within 10 feet of her watchful eye. Whether they liked it or not.

"What time is it?" Hannah mumbled, trying to find her phone within a mountain of bed sheets and quilts.

"Almost 4:30…" Carly said, practically apologetic.

"4:30!" Hannah repeated, incredulous.

"It's understandable," Carly assured her. "I don't think you got in last night until...3 maybe. Jen said she heard you come in. I'm surprised you managed to get the door open in your state. You're one of the most functional drunks I've ever met."

"Shit." Hannah mumbled. She couldn't remember a thing from the night before. Just neon flickers and traffic lights. Noise. Chatter. And the amber taste of alcohol slipping easily down her throat.

"I called Mr. Graham." Carly said. "He said he understands that you've got a lot going on, but he really needs you at work tomorrow cause a Mr...Hughes or Humphrey or somebody's coming in for a job and-"

"Yeah, okay." Hannah said, her head pounding like a mallet on marble. Carly never did learn to use her indoor voice. "I'll be there."

"Nate said you guys went at it pretty hard last night." Carly said. There it was. That pitying look. Hannah could sense she was going to launch into her speech again. The one she had heard countless times since the new about her father had come through. _I went crazy when my grandfather died…We all need time to grieve...don't push yourself...If you ever need a shoulder to cry on..._

 _God, I can't sit through that again._ Hannah thought, cringing.

"Yeah, Clearly." She bit back.

"I'll leave you alone then," Carly said with her usual smile, finally taking the hint. "Oh, Nate and I are hitting Slaters tonight for burgers. You wanna come?"

Even though every muscle in her body felt as stiff as a board and the thought of going out repulsed her, Hannah couldn't ignore her quaking stomach.

"Yes, I do." She conceded.

"I've got a night shift, so we're going at 6." Carly said, beaming. "There's iced coffee in the fridge. If you're coming you better perk up!"

"U'kay," Hannah yawned, attempting to stretch out her weary shoulders.

Carly left her then, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Hannah lifted her hands to her face and tried to rub the sleep from her eyes. She took deep breaths, hoping the tightness in her head would subside.

She opened her eyes and looked out her window.

Or rather, windows.

She would have preferred to live by herself, but that choice would have left her with a much smaller, crappier apartment.

Her place on 45th street was absolutely perfect. It was a two bedroom, one bath unit located on the fourth floor of the five story building. The area wasn't the safest, but then again very few blocks in Hell's Kitchen were. The property used to be a warehouse, but it had been bought several years back and transformed into a residential space. The rent had been high but with two roommates, Hannah had managed to make it work.

Carly and Jennifer Walker were sisters, only a year apart in age. Hannah had met Carly through Nate Graham. The two had been dating on and off all throughout their high school and college years. In fact, Hannah was fairly certain they would marry someday. Carly worked mostly night shifts, so Hannah very rarely saw her around the apartment. Jen, the younger Walker sister, was a makeup artist and amateur photographer. She spent her days at work, but was out most nights with a slew of dates and friends.

Their unit sat at the front of the building and Hannah's room occupied the southern corner. Carly and Jen shared the larger room that sat on the other side of the living space. Hannah didn't mind it, her room, she thought, was the better one. Two of her walls were almost completely lined by windows. She had strung several long, cream colored curtains from the ceiling, but she preferred to keep them bunched together, so that she could soak in the view. The buildings around her were all three stories or less, so she enjoyed privacy and didn't have to contend with any prying eyes. The room itself a bit narrow, but the high ceilings allowed for an illusion of spaciousness.

Hannah had enough space for a queen sized bed, a small workspace, a bookcase, and a collection of clutter and nostalgia she had gathered over the years.

She yawned again, dying to fall back onto her pillow and sleep the remainder of the day away.

Sunset was fast approaching. A rosy orange glow permeated through her room. With a heavy sigh, she managed to drag herself from her bed.

 _Need a shower._ She thought, stretching her arms over her head. She grabbed at the fabric of her t shirt and pulled it over her shoulders.

She stilled, overcome suddenly by a whoosh of a memory. No, a dream.

She had been dreaming before she had been dragged so unceremoniously from sleep. Her eyes slipped shut. Hannah rarely remembered her dreams. Oftentimes, she wondered if she dreamed at all.

 _I did dream though._ She thought. _About something...something bad._

It was the good kind of bad, though. The bad that made her cheeks go ruddy and caused her toes clench and curl.

Her brow furrowed in frustration as she tried to recall the details. But they were long gone. Blurry and muted.

_Dammit. Nothing._

Her throat constricted as though she were parched. She turned. A glass sat on her nightstand.

Empty. _Like my head._ She thought. _Like everything else._

She sat completely still for several minutes, lost in a daze. Every part of her felt heavy and stretched out.

 _Maybe it'll come back to me tonight_ , she thought, already imagining what it would be like to fall into back into bed. _At least it's not too far off_.

She grabbed a towel that was draped over her desk chair and exited her room. The bathroom was just across the hallway. Thankfully, it was unoccupied.

Letting her towel drop to the floor, Hannah stepped into the shower. The water was warm, but she wasn't hoping for warm. She cranked the nozzle to the left. Steam quickly filled the shower, The water, now close to scalding, fell around her; igniting a wave of shivers up her back. Soon the heat settled in her bones and the aching began to subside. She could feel her constricted muscles begin to loosen.

She lifted a small bottle from a pouch that hung around the shower head. Squirting a sizable drop into her palm, she ran the soapy liquid over her shoulders and chest. The biting scent of mint and eucalyptus fused with the steam and quickly filled the bathroom.

As trails of water forged little streams down her back, her fatigue was lifted away. Soon, the dreadful thoughts began to creep in.

_Aside from this headache, I feel fine._

Fine. Did she really feel fine? How could she feel fine?

_My father just died. It was sudden. Violent. Unexpected. And I feel fine?_

It wasn't the first time she had contemplated her grief. Or rather, lack thereof.

 _I haven't even cried._ She thought, guilt clogging up the cogs in her mind. _What kind of daughter am I? What kind of person doesn't cry? Or feel bad?_

She reached for her shampoo and began to vigorously scrub at her aching head.

_Just think of something else. I can't go on like this. Drowning in guilt. What good can it do? I need a distraction. Something…_

Hannah racked her brain, searching desperately for a train of thought long enough to last through her shower. Nothing came. She kept returning to her loss.

_**I would like to see you again.** _

Her eyes slipped shut. _So that's what I was dreaming about._

It all came crashing back.

James Wesley.

A more rapturous wave of shivers ran up her spine this time.

 _He's attractive. I thought so the first time._ Hannah thought. _And second. But...I didn't think like this..._

It was the sound of his voice. The impeccable cut of his suit. The way he adjusted the buttons on his jacket. Hell, even his glasses.

Hannah leaned her back against the wall of the shower. The heat of the water began to ebb every slightly. She rolled her tongue over her bottom lip.

 _I would like to see you again_.

She kept the memory rolling in her head. The sound of his voice was cutting, deep; peeling back her layers of misery and awakening something she had put to rest some years ago.

 _Why didn't I see it before?_ Hannah thought. Her hands slid lower and lower down, running patterns over her skin, now slick with water and soap.

She wanted to hear his voice again. Really hear it.

She bit down on her lip, sinking down, down, down.

A knock at the door pulled Hannah from her reverie.

"Hannah?"

It was Jen. Hannah sighed angrily, her eyes fluttering open. Another wasted fantasy.

"Can I get in there?"

Hannah turned the water off.

"Yeah," She called back, trying to conceal her annoyance.

As she stepped out of the shower, she felt colder than ever before.

* * *

After relinquishing the bathroom to her second roommate, Hannah sat on her bed and began to towel dry her hair.

She has numb as she had when she was disturbed from sleep. Except this time her heart was pounding.

 _It's not like he's really going to call._ She thought, trying to be sensible. _He left in such a hurry. Maybe it was just a way to placate me._

She looked at the clock that sat next to her bed.

 _5:15._ It read _._

It had been four days since she had seen him. She sighed.

A speck of light caught her attention. It came from her phone. She picked it up.

 _A missed call?_ It wasn't a number she recognized. _And a voicemail. I didn't think anyone left messages anymore._

She swiped her thumb over the screen, entered her password and lifted the phone to her ear.

"Hello, Miss Bankhead…"

The last of her sluggishness vanished in a flash. It was him.

James Wesley.

* * *

 _ **Eight days later**_.

_Shit, shit, shit._

"Shit," Hannah muttered.

Her bed was covered with the contents of her closet. All that remained inside the cramped wardrobe was a halloween costume from two years back.

 _And I'm certainly not wearing_ _ **that**_ _._ She thought as she cast a look of pure disdain over her shoulder.

"I've got nothing!?" She said aloud, compelled to voice her frustration. "Absolutely nothing."

Every dress, every skirt, every jacket had been flung into the reject pile.

Unfortunately, her babbling had attracted attention. Carly popped her head through the door.

"What are you moaning about now?" She asked. It was only 6pm, but Carly was already dressed in pajamas. 

_Must be her night off._ Hannah thought.

Hannah hated asking for help, but she was desperate now.

"I've got nothing." Hannah said, placing a hand on her head. "Nothing to wear."

Carly glanced at the mountain of clothes on Hannah's bed. "Since when do you care so much about-Ah! Do you...are you going out? On a-"

"Don't say it!" Hannah babbled. Now she had done it. Hurricane Carly had been released.

"Ohmigod," Carly all but squealed. "How long has it been?! Since Liam left which was god, two-almost three years ago-"

"Yeah, let's not dwell on that!" Hannah interjected. "It doesn't matter when the last one was, can we focus on the problem?"

"What problem?" Carly asked, totally derailed.

"I don't have anything to wear." Hannah repeated. "And, I've got...fuck, I've got an hour left."

"Who is he?" Carly asked, her excitement replaced by a troubling slyness.

"He's-" Hannah started. She was unsure of how to continue.

_What can I say? He's a man I hardly know? Oh by the way we met up after my father's funeral? Anything I say is bound to get back to Nate. And he'll tell Luke and Luke will tell Bonnie and, lord, it's only a matter of time before they all know and try to butt in. God, why did I say anything?!_

"Just a guy." Hannah said, choosing to shrug it off.

" _Just_ a guy?" Carly repeated, enunciating each word with enough derision to dry up a well.

"That's right." Hannah said, pulling another curler loose.

"I see," Carly said, tilting her chin upwards. "If that's how it is...good luck finding something to wear…"

"No, no, no," Hannah said, bounding over the to door. "Come on, Carly. Please, could I borrow something?"

Carly grinned. "You're going to have to give me more than 'just a guy' if you want to get into my closet."

Hannah huffed. "Then I'll just go ask Jen."

Carly snorted. "Not if I get to her first."

Before Hannah could form a snarkier response, Carly fled. Hannah raced after her.

"Jen!" Carly yelped. "Don't listen to her. Don't-Ack!"

Carly may have gotten a head start, but Hannah never fought fair. She managed to catch Carly's shoulder and pull it back with a fair amount of strength. Carly lost her balance and went spinning into the couch.

Hannah slipped past her and nearly collided with the small table that sat next to the front door. She rounded the corner and headed towards the sister's room.

"Jen!" Hannah called.

"What on earth?!" Jen said, peering out of her room. A pair of headphones was draped around her neck, somewhat tangled in her dyed hair.

"Jen," Hannah said, gasping for breath. "Can I borrow a dress?"

Jen blinked, still confused. "Yeah, I don't see why not-"

"Jen!" Carly yelped, finally catching up. "Don't you dare-"

"She said yes!" Hannah shouted back, triumphant. "Too late!"

"Dammit, Jen!" Carly said, stopping to catch her breath.

"What did I do?" Jen asked, unable to hide her amused smile.

"Nothing at all." Hannah said, "Now let's see what you've got I haven't much time."

"What's it for?" Jen asked, opening her door completely.

"Hannah's got a date!" Carly shouted.

"It's just dinner." Hannah said. "No big thing."

"Who is it?" Jen asked, sliding open the door to their shared closet.

"Just a guy…" Hannah said.

"Just a guy?" Jen repeated.

"She fed me the same line." Carly said, appearing in the doorway. She crossed her arms over her chest. Hannah could sense an interrogation was fast approaching. And now she was outnumbered.

"Well, it's true." Hannah said, holding her hands up in a mock defense.

"Well," Jen said, mimicking Hannah's tone. "What kind of look are you going for?"

Hannah was thankful to have Jen's impeccable style and taste to rely on.

"I don't know. I was looking at the restaurant online trying to get a sense. Ai Fiori." Hannah said.

"Ai Fiori?" Jen repeated. "That place is super classy."

"That's what I was afraid of," Hannah said. She fiddled with another curler, trying to distract her nerves. _Just three more left._

"Yeah." Jen said, rifling through her racks. "And expensive. Who is this guy?"

"His name is James." Hannah said, relinquishing.

"James." Jen repeated. "Classy name, too."

"Oh, come on." Hannah said. "There are lots of James...es."

"Mmhhmm," Jen said, her attention focused elsewhere. "Here, this one."

She pulled a deep navy dress from the rack. It was sleeves and slim, with an exaggerated ruffle lining the bottom hem.

"My Audrey Hepburn dress." Jen said, jokingly.

"I don't know…" Hannah said. She took the dress from Jen and held it up against her body. "Isn't the bottom a bit to youthful? I don't want to look any younger-"

"Ooh!" Carly squeaked. "And why is that? Is he...older?"

Hannah sighed and ducked her head. _Of all the times for Carly to be astute._

"Yeah…" Hannah said.

Carly and Jen exchanged a knowing laugh.

"You've really got a type." Jen said, returning to the closet.

"What do you mean?" Hannah asked.

"First Liam," Carly said, all too happy to take the question. "Now...James."

Hannah tried to think of a rebuttal, but nothing came to mind.

"How about this one?" Jen said, reemerging from the closet. "It falls to my knees, so Hannah it'll probably be more of a mini on you…"

Hannah took it from her. This time, it was a black dress.

"Oh, I love that one," Carly said.

 _It is lovely,_ Hannah thought. It was fitted sheath dress. The body was covered in intricate beading arranged in a flattering zigzag pattern. The sleeves were capped and hem was fringed.

"It's a Mattox knockoff," Jen said, admiring it herself.

"I'll pretend like I know what that means." Hannah said. She held it up against her, trying to size it up in Jen's mirror.

"Yes, this is the one." Hannah said.

"What are you doing with your hair?" Jen asked.

"I don't know." Hannah said, instinctively touching the top of her head. "I was trying to loosen the curls, but...with this dress shouldn't I wear it up?"

Jen nodded. "Yes you should. Let me see."

She placed her hand on Hannah's shoulder and pushed her over to her vanity. With expert hands, she pulled the last of Hannah's curlers out. It only took her ten minutes to craft a simple but elegant knot. She tugged loose a few of Hannah's shorter layers to frame her face.

"There." Jen said, very much proud of her handiwork. "Shoes?"

"The short suede pumps from the Ruche trunk show." Hannah said. At least she was sure about one thing.

"The black ones? With silver heel?" Jen asked.

"Yeah." Hannah nodded.

"Nah," Jen said, returning to her closet. "You should go simple. Is he taller than you?"

"Yes?" Hannah answered, not understanding the question. 

"Here." Jen said, handing her a pair of black heels. "If you can get away with these, men don't usually like it if you're taller."

Hannah tilted her head from side to side, her eyes trained on her reflection as she slipped one on. 

"You're a lifesaver Jen." She said.

"Yes I am." Jen said, with a wide grin. "But I don't shell out my services for free, you know."

Hannah's grin deflated. "What's your price, Walker?"

"I need details when you get back." Jen said with a wink.

"Details." Hannah repeated. "Alright, you'll get details."

"Oooh!" Carly squealed from the living room. "There's a car outside!"

Hannah and Jen rushed into the living room and to the window.

Sure enough, a large sleek car was parked at the curb.

"Looks like an Uber X" Carly said.

"Well, it would have to be," Jen said, "To go to Ai Fiori."

Hannah didn't know what to say. She swallowed loudly. Her stomach began to clench up.

"Oh boy," She whispered under her breath.

"Nervous?" Jen asked.

Hannah shook her head, steeling herself.

"Of course not." She said, with a wry smile. "I'll just let him wait a little longer."

She left the window and hurried into her room. She slipped off her robe and slipped into the dress. After touching up her lipstick in the bathroom mirror, she dropped it into her clutch.

"Well?" She asked, entering the living room. "What do you think?"

She gave a playful twirl, hoping to shake off some of her racing adrenaline.

"Perfect." Carly said.

"Can someone zip me up?" Hannah asked, turning her back to the window.

Jen nodded.

"Give him hell, Hannah." She said, after securing the clasp.

Hannah grinned, flashing her white teeth.

"I plan to."


End file.
